The Queens of Merab 2 Temair’s Rayne Page 7
Unwilling to be patient any longer, she managed to push his head away enough to come to her own knees. Planting her hands on his shoulders, she shoved until he let her wrestle him down. Jerking the loose fabric of her skirt out of the way, she crawled on top of him, catching the heady scent of the greenery crushed beneath his body and breathing it in. Sliding down his long, tanned torso she opened her mouth, licking hot, wet kisses over his neck, his shoulder, his pecs, not stopping when he hissed out a breath and arched against her. Not stopping when he grasped her waist and kneaded the soft curve of her hip. Not stopping until she felt his cock hit her belly.
Finally where she wanted to be, Temair sat up and wrapped her hand around the thick base of his cock. He moaned, that involuntary cry that was already as familiar and enflaming as Miach’s dirty, whispered promises, and she couldn’t wait one more second.
“I need you inside me now,” she bit out as she sank down his length. His cry this time was sharper, his beautiful, golden body tense beneath her as he obviously fought for control. But she didn’t want him in control. The stretch of him inside her, the burn as he filled her beyond pleasure to that line where pain and ecstasy danced hand in hand, made her crazy to have him as wild as she was.
She ran her hands roughly over the satiny skin of his chest, almost trying to absorb him through her fingertips. Catching his bronzed nipples between her fingers, she pinched, coaxing them to respond to her touch. He threw his head back as his pelvis jerked upward to meet her, thrust for thrust.
Miach had awakened her passion, but through Dathan’s sensuality she was learning her sexual power.
He pushed up on one elbow, keeping the other firm on her hip. His eyes raked over her, burning her flesh through the thin fabric of her dress. They were so in synch it felt like their very minds were linked. Grasping her skirt, Temair wrenched the damp fabric over her head, baring herself to his avid gaze.
Dathan collapsed back, hips churning against hers, but it only took him a second to push back up, as if he needed to watch her as much as he needed to feel her.
The hand on her hip slid down to grasp her ass as she rode him, taking him harder, faster, deeper. He arched further up, sweet Mother so beautiful, and caught a nipple between his lips. She cried out and slammed down harder, trying to somehow diffuse the intensity of the sensation. He shuddered under her, and let her feel the edge of his teeth, a sharp caress that had her crying out and spearing her fingers through his dark hair, locking them in.
He looked up and this time it was Temair who kissed him with scalding hunger, her lips burning on his while her pussy clamped tightly around him, strong internal muscles squeezing every inch of his burning, throbbing cock.
They set up a blistering pace, an exquisite rhythm. She could feel his orgasm coming, see it in the tight line of his jaw, and knew her own wasn’t far behind. His eyes surged bright, ocean blue and he thrust hard, filling her more deeply than she could have imagined.
He gave a low, guttural moan, and flipped them, hands on her hips, dragging her onto his cock. She wrapped her legs high around his back, and pushed him closer with her heels, grinding her throbbing clit against his pubic bone and setting of the first hungry shudders. Dathan stiffened and pressed deeper still, jerking and moaning as he filled her with his pleasure and his seed. The sight of his pleasure, the fiery spurt of it inside of her, touched off her own, and she came apart around him.
* * *
Miach had been sparring with Darmon when he felt it, the unmistakable surge of Temair’s fyre. But where he was used to that lash of flame being accompanied by a rush of pleasure, now it rode a wave of fear.
The sudden undeniable knowledge that she was in danger, she needed him, froze him in his tracks, earning him a shout and curse from his best friend and sparring partner as Darmon quickly extinguished a whip of fyre that would have singed even the powerful Lord of Fyre.
Miach didn’t even spare a grateful thought for Darmon’s expertise at the Fyeria, just turned and all but flew from the practice grounds. He’d felt the malevolence surrounding Temair’s fyre, felt the drowning anguish and the loss of consciousness, and cursed himself with every pounding step for letting her out of his sight.
He didn’t think, just ran, cutting through foliage and dodging willowy branches until he broke free of the lush jungle that made up so much of the Rayne Lands. He was so primed for battle he reacted before his brain had even had time to process what he was seeing. With a thought and a flick of his magic, Dathan was flying through the aire, landing hard on his back and held down by a web of flame. When Temair surged to her feet, teeth bared to fight, Miach’s logical brain kicked in, and he began to take stock of the situation.
Temair was under attack, but not the kind he’d expected. No, she’d been under sensual assault, the kind that left her mouth moist and hot, her pussy wet and swollen.
“Miach!” He heard her, but he couldn’t respond. Not yet.
He knew, he damned well fucking knew it wasn’t mere sex that had called out to his magic.
“Miach, stop!” She moved closer, getting right up in his face, fierce and pulsing with magic and with life. She closed her hand over his fist, the fist he had clenched, holding that fiery net over Dathan. “He’s not the one who hurt me,” she added, sliding her hand down to wrap around his marriage cuff.
“What the fuck happened, Spark?” It took a monumental effort to get the words out, to form coherent thought past the conflagration of rage burning through him.
Before she could answer, his net of fyre flared, sputtered, and vanished under a surge of sheer ice. In the blink of an eye, Dathan was on his feet, his too-handsome face twisted in a grimace of rage that matched Miach’s own.
All that adrenaline needed an outlet, and since there wasn’t a clear enemy to be seen, he decided Dathan would make as good a target as any.
Somehow he kept his hands gentle as he shifted Temair behind himself, but there was nothing of gentleness in him when he faced Dathan across the clearing.
Without offering the man the courtesy of a bow or even a word, Miach gathered his fyre, still amazed at the power he could pull so far from home. A happy side effect of his mating with the future queen. A side effect he took full advantage of, sending a heavy ball of fyre at Dathan.
The Rayne Lord surprised him again, catching the fyre in one big hand and collapsing it with a hiss of steam. Miach fired again, shooting a barrage of flame at the golden man, distracting Dathan so that Miach could once again lash out with a fiery whip, binding the Rayne warrior’s arms to his sides.
Dathan didn’t stand idle and allow himself to be subdued, though. Just as Miach was about to sneer out his victory, the Rayne Lord flexed wide shoulders, and Miach’s net of fyre glowed blue, transformed, and suddenly it wasn’t a net of fyre, but a snare of water, flowing back on Miach to bind him every bit as neatly as he’d contained Dathan just seconds before.
“What are you doing?” Temair’s panted out words sounded dim and far away. His rage and disbelief made him almost deaf to her. He’d never been beaten before. No one had ever even come close.
With a primal roar, Miach let loose the full scope of his fyre, dissolving Dathan’s net. The distance between them dissolved just as neatly, and all at once they were hand-to-hand, fist to fist. There was nothing of the elegant Fyeria in this fight. It was dirty and ruthless, too filled with emotion for strategy or thought.
He was so caught up in the battle that the deluge of ice water that suddenly doused them hit him like… well, like a deluge of ice water. Dathan seemed equally stunned, standing as still as Miach, so close their bare chests were touching, in a silence broken only by their rough breaths.
“I said,” Temair repeated in a soft, deadly voice, “What. Are. You. Doing?”
Miach dragged a deep breath, for once unaffected by the touch of Dathan’s skin on his own. “I think I should be asking him that,” he finally responded once he’d regained control of his vocal cords.
“He was defending you,” Dathan replied for him, and Miach had to choke back a snarl.
“I don’t need your help,” he rasped.
Temair growled, a sound that made his dick perk up and take notice in spite of the completely inappropriate circumstances, and snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Oh, Consort, I think you need all the help you can get right now,” she countered. She sent a narrow look in Dathan’s direction. “Continue.”
“Obviously he felt your distress,” the Rayne Lord said in a tight voice that betrayed his own tension. “He came to rescue you, and I was the nearest threat he perceived.”
“You are no threat to me, little boy,” Miach gritted out, trying to step away and realizing too late that Temair’s magic, no matter how untutored it was, held him anchored firmly to the ground.
“Then why do you run every time you see me, big man? Why did you leap at the first opportunity to attack like a rabid animal?”
It was fortunate Temair had a hold on them then, because Miach thought he just might have killed the Rayne Lord for his gall.
Chapter Eight
“Both of you, shut up!” Miach had murder in his eyes, Dathan had trouble in his, and Temair felt ready to flay them both. Sensing both men were near the breaking point, she released her hold on them enough to let Miach jerk away from Dathan. Her magic was an odd hybrid of theirs, clearly of Rayne, but shot through with fyre in a melding that had stopped both men dead in their tracks.
It was definitely worth studying, experimenting with. But later. For now…
“Is he right?” she asked Miach. Before he could stammer out a denial, she clarified. “Did you feel the attack on me? Is that what brought you here?”
He was struggling for rationality, fighting hard to regain his precious control, and she let him have a moment, gesturing sharply for silence when Dathan would have goaded him further.
After a long moment, Miach drew a deep breath and forcibly relaxed his shoulders. “It felt like I was drowning,” he answered, his voice low and pained. “Like I couldn’t breathe, only I knew it wasn’t me.” His eyes met hers, and sheer, screaming Hell was in their fiery depths, obliterating the black and leaving only scarlet flame. “I knew it was you, Spark, and I knew I couldn’t get to you in time.”
She had to catch her breath at the emotion in his low voice, the anguish in those burning eyes. She’d known her feelings for Miach were growing with every day, had suspected he felt more than mere friendship for her, but she hadn’t dared to hope for the depth of feeling pouring off him now.
She had to drag her attention away from him. There was no time for romance or sentimentality now. Now it was time to be the Ruler of Emetra. She turned to Dathan, who stood silent and looking vaguely amused. Temair knew better, though. She knew that under that smirking façade, Dathan was every bit as shaken as she and Miach were, not only by the attack, but by the force of their coming together.
“I know what I felt, Dathan,” she said softly, and the glint in his eyes mellowed. “What did you see?”
“The water grew cloudy, gray,” he began, glittering eyes vague as he thought back. “It looked as though someone grabbed you from below, pulling you under.” His gaze sharpened again, met hers. “But it wasn’t so much what I saw, Temair, as what I felt.” To her surprise he turned his gaze to Miach as he continued, and there was no hint of humor to be seen. “The water was wrong, the magic tainted. Temair’s rayne magic has already awakened enough that she should have been able to free herself easily. Instead the water held her like a tether.”
Miach’s jaw tightened, and Temair braced herself to separate the men again but, not for the first time, her First Consort surprised her.
“It was the same when she was attacked at Fyre House,” he confirmed. “Flames she should easily have been able to quench, but which refused to die.” His expression hardened still further, reminding her more than ever of a beautiful marble statue. “Do you finally acknowledge that the rebellion has, indeed, touched the Rayne Lands?”
Dathan’s nod was abrupt, angry. “As much as it sickens me, I can not deny the obvious.”
Just as Temair thought it was safe to relax, Miach exploded again, sending a small but scalding burst of flame in Dathan’s direction. “Then why the fuck aren’t you hunting down whoever did this instead of…”
“Instead of what, Consort?” Temair asked, thinking it was a damned good thing he’d paused when he did. Dathan apparently realized what a close save it had been, too, as his smirk returned at almost full force.
Amazingly, however, the Rayne Lord kept his opinion, and his amusement, to himself. “Whoever set the spell was long gone before it was ever activated.”
“Do you think it could have been just a generic spell, meant to cause trouble to whoever happened to take a swim today?” She knew the question was a silly one, but she just couldn’t accept the reality that there was someone out there trying to kill her.
Dathan turned to her with a sad smile. “I wish that were true. I hate that you’re a target even more than I hate the fact that there is a traitor among the Children of Rayne.” He sighed, drawing her eyes back to the broad expanse of his golden chest, the velvety nubs of his nipples reddened from her mouth and fingers.
Both men reacted to the heat and tension she felt growing between her thighs, Dathan with the lowering of lids over tilted blue eyes, and Miach with the warning growl of an animal pushed too far too fast.
Dathan broke the spell, clearing his throat and continuing in a somewhat grudging voice. “Unfortunately, your moody Consort has the right of it. This spell was meant for you, sweetheart. Meant to end you.”
His blue eyes went icy, and when he spoke Temair could see that he and Miach were once again in silent accord.
“That is not something we’ll allow to happen.”
* * *
They retreated to the Villa in troubled silence, Dathan filled with a dread and grief that was utterly foreign to him. Once they’d arrived, Miach sought out Darmon, the only man he’d trust to guard his Princess. Once Temair’s safety was assured, Miach and Dathan assembled Lady Rayne and the Captain of the Villa’s Guard. To Temair’s very vocal dismay, Miach also insisted on fetching the Villa’s Chief Healer, a man named Storm, whose eyes matched his name. By the time Temair had changed to dry clothing and, accompanied by Darmon, collected her foster sisters, the group was assembled by the Reflecting Pool.
Dathan kept his voice slow and steady as he told the others that there had been yet another, nearly successful attempt on Temair’s life. He remembered her unmoving body at the bottom of the pool and anger swelled within, a boiling kind of rage that would scald anyone who crossed him.
“We have a traitor among us,” he pronounced, a sick feeling filling his heart. A soft, feminine gasp drew his attention to the doorway. Losha, one of the scullery maids stood, a dusting cloth in her hand. Dathan frowned and saw Miach do the same. There was no reason for the maid to be present at this very private meeting. He didn’t allow himself to be sidetracked, however, continuing his announcement, “The Princess’s private guard has already begun their investigation. They will not be working alone. I personally intend to supervise the investigation.” He ignored Miach’s scowl, now directed at him, and concluded, “Rest assured we shall find out who has betrayed our Princess.”
The head of the Villa’s security seconded his intentions and began delegating assignments to the Rayne Guards, while Miach did the same with the Princess’s private Guard. Listening to the Consort, Dathan found a new respect for the man’s serious demeanor, and admiration for his wicked knack for strategy.
As he turned to Temair, movement caught his eye. Losha had approached Storm, her lovely bronzed face marred by anxiety and tears. While Dathan watched, the Healer touched the maid’s
face, absorbing her tears in an intimate act reserved for lovers.
Dathan frowned in consternation. Storm was betrothed, had been so since adolescence. In fact, his fiancé was one of Dathan’s distant cousins. For the man to show such public affection for a woman not his intended was a sign of disrespect that Dathan couldn’t ignore. He suppressed a sigh. He couldn’t ignore it, but he could wait to deal with it after Temair’s attacker had been apprehended.
In the mean time, he could at least attempt to maneuver the Healer into some semblance of decency. “Storm, can you tell me if any lasting damage was done to the Princess?” Temair snorted in disgust, but Dathan ignored her. Yes, he wanted to distract the Healer, but he was also genuinely worried for Temair.
The Healer looked at the Princess with an unreadable gaze. “I can see nothing that would cause future problems for the Princess.” He smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly expression. “She’s very lucky you were there to rescue her. Had she been trapped at the bottom of the lagoon much longer, she would not have survived.”
Dathan stilled, and felt Miach and Temair do the same. Storm had moved closer to the pool, and Losha followed, as if drawn by a magnet. Or by magic.
The rage that filled him threatened to boil over, and he felt paralyzed with it. It was Miach who spoke, and his quiet statement stopped those few people who were still near the pool.
“Lord Rayne never said the Princess was trapped in the lagoon. In fact, he never mentioned the nature of the attack at all, merely that it occurred.”
Storm turned and faced them; his blue eyes turning a dull grey that reflected the clouds of the event he was named for. In that moment, Dathan knew he was right. Storm was the traitor.
“How could you do such a thing, Storm?” He didn’t even try to keep the anger and pain from his voice. “You’re betrothed to my cousin, will soon be a member of my family.” The anger was overcoming the pain, and his voice rose with every word. “You’re a healer, Storm, not a killer. How could you have done this?”